


Forwards or Backwards

by Succi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sherlock, F/M, Humor, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Succi/pseuds/Succi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drunken Sherlock accidentally (!?) ends up in Molly Hooper's flat. Some interesting conversations and confessions follow, because in vino veritas. And suddenly Molly uses a phrase Sherlock has heard before. – Spoilers S3, T to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This takes place during His last vow; sometime after Sherlock is released from hospital and before Christmas.   
> English is not my native tongue, and I’m way better in American than in British English, so please bear with me! No Beta, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.   
> Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don’t own them so please don’t sue.

_I wanna be drunk when I wake up, on the right side of the wrong bed. –_ Drunk by Ed Sheeran

 

The moment Mary had called, Sherlock had known what had happened. It hadn’t been that astonishing, really, given the circumstances. Therefore the consulting detective had been surprised how hard it had hit his former flat mate. John had broken off any contact with his sister. Maybe that was one of the reasons why her death hurt him so? Sherlock thought it was better that way. Harry had been a constant nuisance in John’s life; the army doctor always believing he could help her, while it had been obvious to Sherlock that that had been an illusion. Hence Sherlock Holmes thought John Watson was better off without her. Of course he hadn’t told that his best friend. He might not know much about human nature, but he wasn’t **that** insensitive.

So a few hours after Mary’s call, John had turned up at 221B, announcing he was going to have a drink **with** his best friend. Sherlock couldn’t resist to point out that the irony of having a drink after Harry had died more or less of alcoholism, wasn’t lost on him. (Yes, he was **that** insensitive.) John had only glared at him, stating that this was not up to debate, and he and Sherlock would get drunk properly – without any beakers. “Just like normal, boring people would do. And if you’re my friend, then you will do this for me.” Not even the world’s only consulting detective could argue with that.

That’s how they had started their pub crawl – not themed this time, but almost as excessive. John told some sentimental stories about Harry and Sherlock tried his best to play best friend and appear to be attentive. But after Pub number 5, John had been too drunk to remember any stories and Sherlock too drunk to fake attention. So they had decided to call it a night. Now the consulting detective and his blogger were standing on the sidewalk hailing a cap. Sherlock was drunk, but neither as drunk as at the ominous stag night, nor as drunk as John Watson was right now. So he sat his best friend in the first taxi and waited for another one. The two men weren’t going in the same direction anymore. So the light headed detective mumbled the address to the cabbie, closed his eyes and hoped he could control his nausea until the end of the taxi ride.

Sherlock stood in front of the black wooden door and fumbled with the key. His vision was a bit blurry, but that still didn’t explain why the key wouldn’t fit. He shook his head in frustration, the dark curls dancing on his forehead. He glanced up. It was the right door: black painted wood, golden letters telling him 221 and a knocker. Could it be that Mrs Hudson had changed the lock? But why? And why the hell didn’t she tell him about it?! Well, there wasn’t really another option than ringing the bell, was there? Yes, he could pick the lock, but that wouldn’t wake up his landlady. And he wanted to punish her, for changing the lock without telling him. Sherlock Holmes may be a grown up, but he was still very childish at times.

As a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him, he leaned heavy against the door. But to his surprise the door didn’t steady him, instead he tumbled sideways into the hallway. The door had been unlocked! He really needed to have a word with Mrs Hudson. He tried his best to steady himself. He took a deep breath and started ascending the stairs. The interior seemed to be a strange mixture of alien and vaguely familiar. The hand rail felt odd to touch and the colour of the wall was peculiar. He concluded that he was obviously more drunk than he had originally thought. Coming to a halt in front of his door, he was surprised to find **this** one locked. If he wouldn’t have been intoxicated, he would have gone down to Mrs Hudson right now and demanded an explanation. But since this was not the case, he groaned inwardly and fumbled with his key again. And again he couldn’t open the damn door. At times like these it was beneficial to be the world’s only consulting detective, because even in inebriation he could pick a lock in less than a minute. So he leaned closer to examine the lock. _Move slowly, otherwise the nausea will return!_ Just as he was about to stand up, the door flew open and there stood, hands on her hips and an annoyed expression on her face, Molly Hooper. _What is she doing here? Not that I mind, but… Wait, I don’t mind?!_

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for kudos and comments, they always make me happy and let me know what works and what not.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” her voice matched her body language in annoyance.

“Picking the lock, clearly.”

“Why?”

“Because Mrs Hudson changed the lock without telling me.”

“What?” Molly was obviously confused. Sherlock couldn’t really go into that. He was himself quite baffled. He asked, „What are **you** doing here?“ „I live here.”

“Since when?” His eyes narrowed and he tried to talk as sober as possible.

“Since 6 years.” “No.” “What do you mean, ‘no’?” “You haven’t been living here for the last 6 years. I would have noticed, because I was here.” His voice was not unlike the one he used when he explained something to Anderson; which meant, at the moment, he thought she had an IQ just above the one of a cockroach.

Suddenly Molly’s posture changed. She gave Sherlock a once over and all of a sudden he felt something akin to embarrassment. _Impossible!_ He tried to stump the feeling down. “Wait, Sherlock, are you drunk?” “Obviously.” He said it, as if he was proud of the fact. Only now could Molly smell the alcohol and realized he was subtly swaying from left to right – a little bit like a sailor adjusting to a wavering ship. At the same moment the pathologist noticed that they were still in the hallway in the middle of the night. She recapitulated in her mind what Sherlock had said so far. A concrete suspicion formed in her head. _Could it be possible?_  

“Sherlock, where do you think you are?”

He snorted as if that was the most stupid question he had ever heard.

“In 221B Baker Street.”

“No, you’re in 221 Bacon Street.”

His eyebrows drew together in confusion. An expression one had not often the privilege to see on the detective’s face.

“You’re not making any sense, Molly. Just like the egg chair sitty thing.”

“Now, who’s not making any sense?”

“So you’re saying,” he began, a bit babbling, “that this is not my place.”

“No, this is **my** place.”

“Hmm.”

Molly waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. His expression told her he was clearly thinking about something very hard. Then he looked around in the hallway and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “That makes sense now.”

After a few more moments of silence Molly asked tentatively, “Sherlock?”

He did not react. She tried again, “Sherlock, should I call you a cab?”

That brought him out of his stupor.

“No, I can’t leave.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m drunk,” he stated as if it was the most obvious reason why he needed to stay. Now Molly’s eyebrows drew together. “Yeah, I can see that, but…” However, before she could finish her sentence, Sherlock strode past her – with a speed she wouldn’t have given him credit for in his wasted state – into her flat, took off the coat and scarf in one swift motion, laid them over the armrest of the sofa and sat himself down.

_He looks like he belongs there. Molly, stop it! He’s invading your flat in the middle of the night, you should be pissed!_

Molly closed the door and crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively. She tried her best to put on an if-looks-could-kill-look, but was failing miserably. That made Sherlock turn towards her and smirk.

“What a cosy place you have, Molly.” “Oh, shut up!”

Sherlock on a good day was a lot to handle, but drunken Sherlock was more than a handful. When he didn’t avert his drunken-mischievous stare she sighed deeply and made her way to the kitchen.

“You’re definitely in need of a strong coffee.”

As she started to pour water into the coffee machine she muttered, “Maybe that way we’ll get you back to normal.”

“Normal is boring,” he called from the sitting room.

_How could he have heard that? Alcohol seems to enhance his hearing._

The pathologist decided to ignore his comment. She switched on the coffee machine, filled two big glasses with water and went over to the consulting detective.

“Here drink.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Quite bossy, are we?”

“You woke me up in the middle of the night, so cope with it or leave.”

He took the glass from her and smiled **that** smirk again. _I want to slap that smile off his face!_

After taking a sip he said, “No, I like bossy Molly.”

If Molly had taken a sip of her own water, she would have spit it out. _Is he flirting with me?!_

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading and comments– that’s the best motivation there is!!!!!   
> As promised, this one is longer…

Sherlock put his glass down on the couch table, leaned back and closed his eyes. Molly put her glass down as well and went back into the kitchen to retrieve the coffee. She filled two cups (it would be a long night for her too, she had a feeling) and went back to the consulting detective. She put one mug down in front of him, took hers with her and sat down on the far end of the couch. She knew Sherlock was very fond of his personal space.

“Where is Toby?” he asked his eyes still closed.

“Sleeping in the bedroom. Just like **I** was, only a few minutes ago.”

“Ah yes, we live in a fast changing age.” Molly could only roll her eyes at that. Sherlock opened his eyes, sat up slowly ( _no swift movements!)_ and took a sip of his coffee. “That really is a strong one.”

“Well, you are really drunk.”

“Not as dunk as on the stag night.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there.”

“I would have liked that.”

“What?” “If you had been there.”

_Again, is he flirting with me?!_ Molly didn’t know what to say to that so she took a sip of the hot liquid in her cup. Sherlock was right, it really was a strong coffee. Hopefully that would sober him up in little time. She felt a bit uncomfortable with drunken Sherlock.

Silence settled. Molly was nervously fidgeting with the seam of her t-shirt. She felt in need to break the silence. “So, how are you?” “Molly, don’t be boring, that doesn’t suit you.” He put the cup back down on the couch table.

All at once Molly had a little flashback. _Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area._ How odd; on the one hand it felt like that day had only been yesterday, and on the other hand like a lifetime ago. No, like it had been another life entirely. The two years of his absence had gone by in a blur. But there had been days that had felt endless. So much had changed in those two years, and still so many things remained the same. Like her putting up with Sherlock Holmes, when anyone else would have just sent him home to get sober. She couldn’t help it – she would do anything for him. Yet still she had grown in the last two years. She may not be over Sherlock Holmes, but she had given up stammering (most of the time at least) and even had slapped him (more than once!). Just because she loved him, didn’t mean she didn’t like him at times. But through her engagement with Tom she had learned to accept that she was in love with an infuriating high functional sociopath. There was no denying it – and God knows by accepting Tom’s engagement she had tried. Now she knew that there was only one way for her to cope with it: embrace it and live with it.

He had changed as well. He was still cruel and manipulative (Janine being the best example), but he had become more… human in a way Molly could hardly describe; like when he didn’t tear Tom apart with one of his deductions (she knew he could have) or asked her how she was. He was making an effort. It seemed to her as if he accepted now that he had friends; that it was okay to not wanting to be alone.

And now the consulting detective was sitting in her flat in the middle of the night, looking delicious as ever and she looking… probably like a scarecrow in her baggy pyjama pants and her washed out pink t-shirt with a white kitten on it and her hair sticking out in every direction. _Very attractive, Hooper!_

She started to put some strands of hair behind her ears and combed her fingers through it, although she knew it was in vain. Since that turned out to be useless, she nestled with the seam of her t-shirt again, not knowing what else to do with her fingers. Suddenly the commanding baritone voice of the man next to her made her look up. “Stop it. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to wear pyjamas, since I woke you up. I didn’t expect you to be wearing a little black dress.” There was a short pause, as he seemed to consider this. Then he shrugged as he added, “But then again I didn’t expect you at all when I opened the door.”

Molly smiled for an instant, but bit her lower lip right after that. A clear sign, she was still nervous. So he tried to reassure her, “There’s really no need to feel self-conscious. You’re quite pretty in your own way.”

She snorted. “And that from the man that that criticized the size of my mouth and breasts numerous times.”

He had the decency to look sheepish. _Maybe alcohol hasn’t such a bad effect on him?_ “Yeah, that wasn’t one of my finest moments.” “Defenitely not.” She took a deep breath, and before she could stop them the words were tumbling out of her mouth, “It’s just… sometimes I wish I was as beautiful as…” _… the naked woman on the autopsy table at Christmas_ , she wanted to say und Sherlock knew it. He didn’t know how to respond. How should he? He had never been good at personal conversations and that was quite a personal confession from the petite pathologist. She was looking intently on the flower pattern of her pyjama pants and as the silence stretched, he knew she felt more and more uncomfortable for admitting something like that. _Say something to make her feel better! Something funny, might be good._ Sherlock wasn’t in for jokes, so he didn’t remember any of them (you have to delete something), but now his drunken state came in handy, as his mouth started to produce syllables he didn’t know where they came from. “Beauty lies in the eyes of the bee holder. No, bee keeper is the word.” It had the desired effect. She looked up from the flower pattern and chuckled. “Sherlock, stop it. Bee puns are not funny.” “I like bees!” Her voice sounded like she was talking to a child, “I know you do.”

_How would she know? I never told that anyone._ Again Sherlock was surprised that Molly Hooper seemed to know a lot more about him than he did give her credit for.

He was proud of himself, because it had lightened the mood. So he just kept on letting his drunken mind doing the talking, “I think you’re quite beautiful. And under your 5 layers of baggy clothes, you have quite a figure.” He cocked one eyebrow up in challenge. She slapped him playfully on the arm. “God, censor you thoughts!” “It’s after midnight, so it’s perfectly fine for my thoughts to be M-rated. And I’m pretty sure you’ve had M-rated thoughts about me before.” Molly didn’t have to answer that question. The colour of her face told it all. “See,” was all he said while raising his cup, before he took another sip.

Before Molly could start to contemplate why she had admitted something so personal about herself, she decided to change the subject and address the matter at hand. “Sherlock, why are you drunk?” “Because I had too much alcohol. John refused to use the beakers.” She rolled her eyes at him. “No, I mean **why** are you drunk?”

“You mean, why as in what was the reason for drinking alcohol?” She only nodded. “You have to be more specific in your questioning,” he pointed out reasonably. She rearranged her position on the sofa, so that she sat cross-legged facing the detective. “Don’t be a smart arse; I know when you’re stalling.” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “John made me come with him. His sister died, and he made it clear that it was my duty as his best friend to support him in getting drunk.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh God, I’m sorry!” Sherlock knitted his brow. “What for?” “For John, because his sister died.” Molly couldn’t keep the wonder for the need to explain herself out of her voice. “But John is not here, and I don’t care. He’s better off without her.” _Okay, maybe he hasn’t become more human._ Molly’s eyes went as big as saucers. But Sherlock didn’t find anything abnormal about his statement. So he just went on, “Additionally I don’t understand why people say they’re sorry when somebody dies. It’s hardly their fault, and it definitely won’t bring back the dead.” His voice was as bored as ever. It took Molly a moment to process everything her visitor had said. “How can you say something like that?” “Like what?” “That he’s better off without her.” “Because it’s the truth.” When the pathologist’s horrid expression didn’t soften, he elaborated, “Harry had been an alcoholic for most of her life. She repeatedly borrowed money from John, but never paid it back. She drew him into all kinds of trouble. He used his influence as an army doctor to get her into one of the best rehab clinics in London, but she just left. She lied to him repeatedly and he would always fall for it, because he wanted to believe her desperately. He spent most of his adult life worrying about his sister. And when **he** would’ve needed her when he came back from Afghanistan, she didn’t help him at all. Bottom line: He only had troubles with her, so in the long run it’s better for him that way.” 

The pathologist considered him for a moment. “So, you’re saying you don’t feel bad about her death, because you think in the end it means something good for John?” 

Sherlock took the last sip of his coffee and thought about her words, before answering, “Yes, I guess that’s what I mean. Although I wouldn’t put it that… sentimental.” He said the last word as if it would taste foul in his mouth. Molly couldn’t help but smile at that. Still, she had to be sure, “But you didn’t say any of that to John, did you?” He looked at her as if she was out of her mind. “Of course not! Social norms may not be my area, but even **I** have a certain degree of tact.” “I know. One just doesn’t know if it will show up at the right time.” His mouth twitched upwards in an amused expression and Molly smiled openly at him. “So you were a good best friend and got drunk with John.” Sherlock groaned a bit and reclined back into the cushions. “I was the **best** best friend. I even listened to all his soppy stories.” He sounded like he was telling her about being tortured. And she figured in a way it had felt like that for him. She tried to joke again, “I reckon that’s why you needed to get drunk.” “Clearly.” He took her very seriously.

 

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m glad you still like it!   
> Well, let’s see if I can handle a woozily (I just love that word!) Sherlock…

Sherlock massaged his temples. “I’m going to have a headache in the morning.” “Probably, but the coffee seems to work. Your eyes aren’t that glassy anymore.” Molly wished she could have kept on camera what Sherlock did next according to her statement. His eyes narrowed and went testingly from left to right and back. He was clearly trying to look at his own eyes to see if she was right. The pathologist started to giggle, whereas Sherlock sounded frustrated, “I still feel quite befuddled.” “I can see that,” she squeaked in between giggles.

Sherlock shook his head to get rid of the dizziness, but it hadn’t the desired effect. On the contrary, it became worse, so that he closed his eyes momentarily. Molly stopped giggling. She could sympathize with her consulting detective.

She drank the remains of her coffee, stood up and went over to the kitchen to retrieve some chocolate. Chocolate was one of the few indulgences in the life of Molly Hooper. She loved it. It always made her feel better; not surprising of course, given chocolate contained endorphins. But then again bananas contained more of them than chocolate… Not that she felt bad at the moment, but she just wanted some right now. While walking back with the chocolate bar to the man on her sofa, she had to think about the mug Mary had given her. It was pink and written on it was in brown letters: “Save the earth, it’s the only planet with chocolate on it.”

She popped herself down on her side of the couch again, and as she turned to her visitor to offer him some dark temptation, she saw him looking at her with defiance. She knew this expression all too well. Nothing good ever came from it.

_Now is one of those moments when his tact leaves the room._

She steeled herself inwardly for what was coming. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help the stab she felt when he said in his condescending voice, “You really shouldn’t eat chocolate in the middle of the night. You already have a job that scares away most men. Getting fat or diabetes won’t help finding a suitor.”

And all of a sudden her hunger for chocolate was satisfied; maybe forever. She put the bar down on the couch table and crossed her arms.

“Has someone ever told you, you suffer from Machiavellianism?”

Her expression was stony and her mouth a grim, thin line. She had decided not to show the hurt his comment caused her anymore, so she settled for being cross. She knew her statement did not really fit to what he had said, but that was something she had wanted to say to him for some time now.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her. After a moment of intensive study, he murmured, “That was a bit not good.” “Sorry, what?” Her tone was tense. Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck, which could be seen as the equivalent to Molly biting her lower lip. _Alcohol makes Sherlock look sheepish. Who would have thought that?_ “John says that, when I say something that is not… appropriate.” Despite her being angry, a small smile made its way on Molly’s face. “You mean, this is like your… John conscious?”

He considered that for a moment. “You could say so.” Molly gave a laugh and Sherlock’s features became slightly exasperatedly. The pathologist stopped laughing and tried to explain herself, “I’m just laughing, because you are hearing John’s voice in your head and I’ve heard yours earlier.” Now his face showed interest. “When?” All at once she realized that maybe she shouldn’t have confessed this, because now she had to tell him, that she had been thinking about the conversation in the morgue. _In his eyes I’m being sentimental, and he hates that._ _It’s your own fault, Molly. You started it, now you’ll have to finish it._

“I… I,” she stammered again and stopped. To her astonishment Sherlock did not mock her or snap at her for being boring, but waited silently, a patient ( _???!! Could that be?)_ expression on his face. She took a deep breath and continued, “I had kind of a déjà-vu, when you said I shouldn’t be boring.” “I’ve never said that to you before,” he said with absolute conviction. For a second Molly was tempted to tell him that he couldn’t possibly remember every conversation they’d ever had, so he couldn’t be sure about that, but then again: It was Sherlock Holmes; with him you never knew. In the few seconds she thought about it, she would have to agree with him. De facto she couldn’t remember an instance when he had said that to her before. “No, not those exact words, but it took me back to… you know…,” she trailed off.

Sherlock leaned forward a bit, to have a better look at her. “No I obviously don’t, because contrary to public believe I’m not a telepath, so I need you to tell me, I’m afraid.”

She thought the best way was to get it over with quickly, so she blurted out, “It took me back to the day in the lab, before the fall; when you told me I shouldn’t feel the need to make conversation, because it was not my area.” She cast her eyes down on her pyjama pants. She waited for him to say something crushing again. She waited and waited, but no sound was coming from the man next to her. When she couldn’t take it anymore she looked up hesitantly to find him looking at her. His expression was unreadable as ever, but something in his eyes caught her attention. They were more blue than grey and shining with something akin to… embarrassment? She blamed it on the alcohol. But his next words proved her suspicion, “Yeah, that was another one of my not so fine moments.” His expression changed into one of pure empathy – something Molly had never seen before. It looked bizarre, almost comical – as if his face was not meant to show that feeling. Now she was definitely sure that his alcohol induced brain made him look like that. “It’s okay.” She hoped her face would tell him that she meant it. He only nodded and the empathy left his features, replaced by his customary look. As usual she felt small and vulnerable under his intense gaze.

_It’s like he’s looking right into my soul._

On the one hand she hated it because it made her feel exposed and naked, but on the other hand it was one of those things she loved about Sherlock Holmes.

When he didn’t show the slightest inclination to take his eyes off her, she decided she had to keep herself busy to distract herself. Therefore she got up again and pulled the blanket from the chair beside the sofa. She sat back down and pulled the fabric over her legs. She didn’t feel cold (quite the contrary), but it felt more cosy that way. When she had finished her task she noticed Sherlock still watching her. “Won’t you offer me some of the blanket?” Molly couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or not. His expression gave nothing away. Her eyes danced nervously from the blanket to him and back. “Well… I wouldn’t have thought you wanted to share the blanket. And you’re sitting too far away for that, so…,” she muttered. She couldn’t finish her sentence, because he rearranged himself and before Molly could react, he was sitting next to her indicating with his hands on his lap. “Well, is that close enough?” _No. Yes! Too close! There can’t be a **too close**! Molly focus! _ “Y… y… yes.” She hated how breathless her voice sounded. _So much for not stammering and not being nervous around Sherlock Holmes anymore. No change there…_

With shaking hands she took hold of the blanket and draped a part of it over Sherlock’s lap. She was careful not to touch him in the process. Sherlock Holmes didn’t like to be touched. Although just moments ago she would have sworn Sherlock Holmes didn’t like to share a blanket…

The consulting detective settled back into the cushions and while doing so his knee brushed against hers. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. An electric shock went through her and she couldn’t supress a shudder. Sherlock noticed but misinterpreted it and pointed out reasonably, “If you’re cold, you should drape the blanket over your shoulder.” He was about to reach for the blanket and do just that, when her words stopped him, “No. I’m fine.” For an instant he didn’t look convinced, but eventually he let it go.

_Molly, you stupid thing! That would have been the perfect excuse to cuddle with Sherlock Holmes under a blanket, and you let it slide?! Are you out of your mind?! That was probably a once-in-a-lifetime-chance, and you blew it!_

Her inner monologue was interrupted by the man beside her.

“Why didn’t you move in with Tom?” Her head snapped in his direction. His eyes were scanning her flat once more.       “I’m not an expert, but isn’t that’s what you do, when you’re engaged – live together?”

The second the topic arose she could feel herself getting defensive. Sherlock – of course – noticed the change in her stance and voice as she spoke. But he chose to ignore it. Acknowledging it would have meant to interpret it and he wasn’t good in interpreting feelings.

“We both agreed that we needed our own space.” That sounded like a lame excuse even to her own ears. “Furthermore Toby and his dog didn’t get on well.”

“These are just feeble excuses,” he stated. She wanted to contradict him, but before she could say something, he declared with finality, “You didn’t love him.”

“How would you know anything about love?” she snapped and sat straight up. But the second she realised what she had said, she wanted to take it back.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I meant…”

“No, you’re right.” He shrugged his shoulders. He seemed nonchalant about it, too casual for Molly’s taste. He wasn’t as good as an actor when he was slightly tipsy, so the young woman could easily see though his charade. She had hurt him with her comment and he tried to play it down. If she had been someone else she might have had a thought like, “Serves him right, now he can see how that feels!” But because she was sweet Molly Hooper she didn’t have such thoughts. Instead she wanted so say something to divert his attention, but he went on, “Still, if you didn’t love him, why marry him?”

“I never said I didn’t love him.”

“You didn’t deny it either.”

“That’s something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.” His look was a mixture between challenge and genuine interest. _Why can’t he just let it slide?_ Molly really wasn’t in the mood to have this conversation right now. But then again, she figured she would never be. _So why not get it over with now when he’s slightly tipsy maybe I’m lucky and he won’t remember any of it tomorrow._ Molly thought about it for some time. How could she put it so that she made herself clear, but wouldn’t give too much away? It was like walking on egg shells.

Again Sherlock was silently waiting for her explanation while taking a sip of water. She took a deep breath.

“There’s this point in your life, when it’s about forwards or backwards. And while you were gone I decided that it was time for me to move on - forwards. So I tried to find myself a…”

“… boring…”

“… **decent** man and be happy, but…”

All of a sudden his body went stiff. “What did you say?” “I said ‘I tried to find myself…’” He waved his hand dismissively. “No, not that. You said something about ‘there’s a point in your life…’” Molly grew more confused by the second and she wasn’t really keen on repeating that personal confession. But she didn’t really have a choice, did she? “I said, there’s this point in your life, when it’s about forwards or backwards. And…”

He held up a hand to stop her before she could babble on. His look got pensive. He looked like a statue carved of marble – unmoving with his pale skin. Molly was not sure if he had retreated into his mind palace, and if so, what she had said to send him there. _Did I say something wrong? But he wanted me to repeat my words. Should I say something? No, it’s better to leave him alone, when he’s in his mind palace. But it’s… irritating to say the least._

In a sudden movement he put his hand down again. Realization flit across his features and he turned to look at her.

“You’ve said that to me before.”

She thought about it for a second, before answering hesitantly, “No, I don’t think so.”

“No, not in person, but your other self.” Moly cocked her head to one side and turned her body more towards him. Her knee brushed his thigh again in the process, but this time she wasn’t distracted by it. There were other things she had to focus on. “You’re not making any sense again, Sherlock.” “I know! Isn’t that brilliant! It’s fascinating!” He had the excited look on his face he normally got when solving a crime he considered at least to be an eight. The pathologist was worried he may have lost his mind.

Suddenly a terrible thought crossed her mind. _Please no!_ “Sherlock, did you take any other toxic substances than alcohol?”

Now **he** looked as if **she** had gone mad. “Don’t be ridiculous Molly, of course not. John would never take me out to do drugs together.” It made Molly almost chuckle, almost. He seemed to register, that that had not been the answer she had wanted. He sighed. “The last time I took any ‘toxic substances’ was in hospital when they gave me morphine. How often do I have to tell everyone that the drugs were for a case? Now would you please get over it?” His voice was a strange mixture between annoyance and something Molly could hardly place. His jaw was tense. When the young woman did not reply to his speech the annoyance fled his features. He touched her arm gently. A movement, Molly blamed on the alcohol as well.

“Molly, I’ve got it under control. Don’t you fret.” His voice and eyes were sincere. Alcohol or not, Molly Hooper was touched.

“If you say so, Sherlock, I believe you.” _I always believe you._

“Good,” he mumbled and leaned back again. She instantly missed his contact. The spot on her arm where he had touched her still felt warm and tickled.

His gaze got distant again. He was clearly thinking about something, but Molly couldn’t figure out what. What had triggered this? They had been talking about Tom ( _sensitive topic!_ ), her explaining her need to move on, him saying… _What was it that he had said? ‘You’ve said that to me before… your other self.’ What does that mean?_

After some more time had passed, she dared to address the absent minded detective on her sofa once more, “Sherlock, what other me talked to you?” The question sounded odd even to her own ears, but she didn’t know how to phrase it differently. Her tone was deliberately gentle. _Maybe he had some hallucinations from the morphine?_

She could see how his gaze became slowly focused again and came back to the present. But he did not turn to look at her. On the contrary, at first Molly wasn’t sure if he had even heard her, because he did not answer right away. She registered that his breathing speeded up slightly. Whatever he was thinking about caused him distress. He closed his eyes momentarily and Molly was certain this time it had nothing to do with nausea.

After opening them again he started to speak, still staring straight ahead, his body tense.

“You did it again. You’ve saved my life.”

_What? How? When? I don’t understand._

But the pathologist did not ask any of those questions. She knew he would tell her. She just needed to be a little patient – as hard as it was.

He swallowed hard. His gaze got distant again and Molly became afraid he would retreat in his mind palace again, but he kept on talking, “When I was shot, I fled to my mind palace, and you were there. You told me to focus. You even slapped me – twice.” His mouth twitched into a short smile, and Molly couldn’t help but do the same.

_Seems like I made an impression._

“And then… well I had to find out if the bullet went through me or not to know which way to fall. And that’s when you’ve said, ‘It’s all about one thing now, forwards or backwards.’ Do you understand? You helped me to survive… again.”

Molly was speechless. It didn’t really make any sense what he had said, but then again it **did** – in some very weird way. She couldn’t believe it: She was part of his mind palace? She knew she counted, but that…

He still refused to look at her. She wondered if he would have ever told her any of that it he wasn’t slightly drunk.

She felt the urge to say something. “You know, I’d do it again, if necessary. I’d help you anytime. Even if I’ll have to slap you.” That finally made him turn to face her. Her last sentence was meant to lighten the mood, but it hadn’t had the desired effect on the detective. His eyes were a dark pool of emotions and Molly couldn’t decide which to identify first – there were so many.

“Even after I disappointed you by doing drugs again and using Janine and everything else?” Molly shrugged. She couldn’t stand his adhesive glance and looked down on her lap again. She could see where their knees under the blanket almost touched. Suddenly she felt sad. It was like an analogy to her relationship with Sherlock – almost, but never quite.

Her fingers nestled with the blanket.

Then she heard his dark voice again. The uncertainty in it was almost imperceptibly. “So, I can still… have you?” “Yes.” _Always._

Silence followed. Molly felt like in stalemate. _Now what?_ Should she just stand up and run away light her flight instinct told her to? No, she would be brave and look him in the eyes. But what if all she’d find there would be resentment? Could she stand that? _Do I have a choice?_ She took a deep breath and dared to look up at him through her lashes. And what she saw made her heart stop. He looked at her in utter wonder. As if seeing her for the first time. Molly had to gulp under his mesmerizing gaze.  

He moved his right hand slowly from his side to her face. He touched her cheek lightly with his thumb and caressed it hesitantly. Never before had she seen him handle someone else so gently. Although his touch was so subtle, it felt as if his fingers were burning her skin where he touched her. She was unable to move or breathe. Afraid, if she did anything she would scare him away. His eyes darted from hers to her mouth and back. _Oh my God, he can’t be considering to…_ Before the pathologist could finish her thought, he lowered his head slightly and leaned forward. She could feel his warm breath on her lips. He dipped his head to the side. She heard the blood rush in her ears and she felt his other hand lightly on her hip. Just as her eyes were about to flutter close and his lips to descend on hers, she heard herself say, “We can’t do that.” Her voice wavered.

He pulled back; confusion written all over his face.

“Why not?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Yes, we’ve already established that.”

He was clearly irritated and annoyed. He let his hands leave her face, but not her hip. She sighed deeply to calm her nerves. The hands in her lap were slightly shaking. She tried to explain herself without stammering, “Because you either won’t remember any of it tomorrow or you will, and then you won’t be able to cope with it and be mean to me again. And I honestly don’t know what would be worse.”

“Do you have so little faith in me?” He sounded sincerely hurt. “I won’t be mean again, at least not on purpose. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.” He looked genuine and Molly wanted to believe him desperately, but she was afraid. She couldn’t really convince herself that a not-drunken-Sherlock would still think like that in the morning, that his sober self would try to kiss her – with no strings attached.

“Sherlock, it’s…” She didn’t know what to say. „I don’t want you to think I’m rejecting you, it’s just…“ She groaned inwardly for her inability to get her point across.

His eyes narrowed and then he nodded and took his left hand off her hip.

“I understand,” he said in an even voice, and somehow she knew he really did. He sat up straight again and emptied his glass of water as if it was something high in alcohol content.

“I guess you should go to bed, Molly. I’ve already occupied enough of your time.” He stared at the empty glass.

“You’re right.“

She got up and he stood as well. Although you couldn’t tell by his talking anymore, it was clear from his slight wobbling while getting up that the alcohol had still an effect on him. His face was an inscrutable mask, staring blankly ahead.

Molly walked to her bedroom door. Just as she was about to enter, she stopped. Her tone was hesitant, “The sofa is too small for you. So come along. I don’t want you complaining about a sore back again.“

She didn’t dare turn around to face him. He didn’t respond, but she continued to enter her bedroom, knowing somehow he would follow her.

Just as she had turned off the bedside table lamp and gotten comfortable, she saw a dark shadow entering her room. He shrugged off his jacket and took off his shoes, before slipping under the blanket. Toby watched him with curious eyes from his position on the chair in the corner.

They laid there for several minutes, either on their respective sides. Then Molly turned around and snuggled against him. His body went tense and Molly thought she’d crossed the line and was about to apologize and retreat, when his arm wrapped around her.

“Thank you, Molly Hooper.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock Holmes.”

Soon both drifted off to sleep, glad to have something to hold onto, not daring to think about the morning to come.

 

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting! Your are all so wonderful!

When Sherlock Holmes woke up on the next morning there were two things that came to his awareness. He had expected the first, but he was surprised by the second. The first one was that he had the worst headache since the day after the stag night. Given the amount of alcohol he had had yesterday that had to be expected. The second thing was that he was lying in Molly Hooper’s bed **alone** – and that was quite surprising. Knowing Molly Hooper was a person who got up late on her days off and was probably fond of… what was this silly word… snuggling… he was sure to wake up finding her arms wrapped around him.

_Has anyone ever noticed that all this stupid terms are quite onomatopoetic: snuggle, cuddle, … horrible!_

Now he woke up alone in an empty bed and it felt cold and… empty. _Wow, one night of drinking and the alcohol has already killed off the brain cells responsible for English._

He yawned, stretched and got up. He listened for an instant if Molly was to be heard somewhere, but there was only silence. She was not in the flat obviously. The only living creature in here beside himself was Toby, who still ( _again?_ ) laid on the chair in the corner.

Slowly Sherlock made his way to the bathroom, took some aspirin and brushed his teeth (good that his toothbrush from the few nights he had stayed after the fall was still there). He scanned his face in the mirror. His eyes were slightly reddened and the wrinkles around his eyes were more visible than usual. _I’m glad John hasn’t got another sister._

He walked back into the bedroom to retrieve his jacket and shoes. When he entered the sitting room he noticed that the glasses and the cups were gone from the couch table. Although a faint stain of his mug was still visible on the wooden surface. In a rush the memory of last night came back to his mind and made him feel light headed again.

What had he done? He had tried to kiss her! But why? _Don’t be stupid, you know perfectly well why!_

The moment she had used the same words as mind palace-Molly had hit him like a brick. Suddenly everything had clicked into place. And all that had been confusing and irritating before, suddenly had been clear as day – and therefore even more confusing.

He shook his head – luckily the pain killers already worked. He took a deep breath and put on his jacket.

 

* * *

 

When Molly Hooper walked into her flat that morning there were two things that came to her awareness. She had expected the first, but she was surprised by the second. The first one was that she really felt tired and looked forward to having a nap in front of the telly – so no surprise there, she hadn’t had a lot of sleep, leaving the flat early in the morning, so she would not have to face the consulting detective in her bed. The mere thought of looking into his eyes after everything she had confessed to him last night made her feel sick.

So she had decided to go grocery shopping, have a coffee, go for a walk and have some more coffee. So her exhausted state was to be expected. But the second thing surprised her. She wouldn’t have thought that said consulting detective whom she was trying to avoid, was standing beside the window with his back to her.

 

When she walked in and saw him there she jumped and almost dropped her groceries.

_Damn him! Why is he still here?_ She closed her eyes for a moment to pull herself together. _You can do it. Act as if nothing has happened. That shouldn’t be too hard. Given the fact that **nothing** had happened. Then why does it feel like it did? _

Sherlock seemed like a statue by the window, not saying anything. She decided to play along and went to store the groceries in the kitchen. After she had finished her task, she turned to look at him to find him still standing in the exact same spot.

Out of the blue he said, “Anderson was there too.” “Sorry, what?”

He turned around.

“In my mind palace, when I was shot. He helped me as well.” His face took on a disgusted look. “I really don’t want to analyze **that**.” Molly chuckled. “Better not.” He smiled at her, but Molly could see that it was forced.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them; Sherlock looking at her with his observing stare and Molly’s eyes darting around in the room desperately trying to settle somewhere else than on him.

To break the silence she asked, “Do you want some coffee?”

He took a deliberate step towards her, but instead of “yes”, “no”, “Don’t be boring,” he accused her, “I know what you did. You wanted to give me an out, so I could sneak out while you were away. Then we could both pretend that last night never happened.”

“I thought, that’s what you’ve wanted,” was her meek reply.

“It would’ve hurt you. And I told you I don’t want to hurt you anymore.” Her head snapped up.

“So, you remember everything?” Her features conveyed a mixture between hope and fear.

“The beginning is a little bit blurry, but in general, yes.”

She blushed. It wouldn’t have been more uncomfortable for Molly if they’d have had sex the night before. It really felt like the morning after. The way they had talked and how they had behaved, now felt so much more intimate than having sex. They both had let their guards down and especially for Sherlock that was so much more intimate than physical release. At least that was what she suspected. And that’s why she was so surprised to find him standing in front of her addressing it, instead of ignoring it. She thought he would delete every memory of the previous night – giving it the state of non-existence. While she would revisit the memory of falling asleep in his arms every night for the rest of her life. _Is this pathetic? Yes, but I can’t help it._

While Molly was contemplating that and becoming more and more nervous by the second, Sherlock seemed frustrated. He raked a hand though his hair. “You need to help me a little here, Molly. This is really not my area.” She felt touched by his request, because of how much it irked him, having to admit that he needed someone else’s help. Still, she couldn’t help teasing him, “So, the consulting detective needs consulting?” “Looks like it.”

Although his tone was light, he looked irritated to no end by this. She desperately wanted to say something to help him, but she had no idea what. She had no clue what this was all about – where he was going with this.

But the pathologist was lucky, because Sherlock had found a way to continue, “You said we couldn’t kiss, because I was drunk. But I’m not drunk now.”

To say she was taken aback by the statement would be an understatement.

“You wanted to kiss me, **because** you were drunk.” “You’re jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

She waited patiently for him to correct her. His voice was firm.

“I wanted to kiss you, because, I **wanted** to kiss you.”

It took Molly a moment to process that. Ok, maybe two moments.

“Are you suggesting…?” He made a step towards her. “You said you wanted to move forward.” “Yes.” Her voice was a breathless whisper. “Do you still have the intention of doing so?” “What do you…?” Her head was swimming. _Is he saying what I think he is saying?_ “What I am suggesting is… Do you want to move forward together?” “With you?” Her heart tried to somersault its way out of her chest. “I don’t see any other high functional sociopaths in the room.” A smile tucked at the corners of his mouth. And before he could change his mind, Molly did something unbelievable brave: She reached forward, grabbed the lapel of his jacket, pulled him down to her level and kissed him.

It goes without saying that Sherlock was shocked by her action, but like last night when she had snuggled closer to him, the initial shock wore off within seconds and he seemed to appreciate her initiating physical contact. So his arms wrapped around her petite frame and drew her closer. She sighed happily and he took it as a sign to deepen the kiss.

When they finally pulled apart, his pupil ware dilated, his lips swollen and she could feel his rapid heartbeat under the palm of her hand. She was sure she looked exactly the same. His voice was even lower than usual and sounded a little breathless. “I think I might have to revise my statement. I feel a little dunk now.” She beamed up at him. “Good, because that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

**The End**


End file.
